by Matt Hilton
Could be calling in reinforcements – or the police, which would be exactly the same thing under the circumstances.
I swept open the door and stepped into the room.
There was a single man. Unarmed, I saw, apart from the mobile phone he clutched. His clothing was of good quality, but I didn't think he was Robert Huffman.
He was a slight man in his late fifties, his face aged and lined beyond his years. His hair was more salt than pepper and was receding. His eyes had the yellow cast of someone with a kidney malfunction. There were tiny veins in his cheeks, a patchwork of broken corpuscles, making his face look like a relief map of a river delta. He held the phone to his mouth, said, 'He's here.'
Then he held the phone out to me.
Holding him under the threat of my SIG, I took the phone from him and held it to my ear.
'Huffman?'
'You have me at a disadvantage.' Robert Huffman's voice barely contained a trace of his Texan roots hidden beneath mock joviality. 'What do I call you?'
'Your death if you've done anything to harm Kate.'
Huffman laughed. 'That's a little melodramatic. Do you practise your lines by watching old Clint Eastwood movies?'
Ignoring the taunt, I said, 'Where is she?'
'Where would you expect her to be?'
'Where are you?'
'Like I'm going to tell you?' He chuckled again. 'Don't worry, she's safe. She will stay that way if I get what I want.'
'What do you want?' Inside I cringed. The first tenet of counterterrorism is that you never give in to demands. That was a rule ingrained in my psyche throughout my active military career.
'Let's start with your name.'
'Joe Hunter.'
It was pointless denying my identity; he would only force it from Kate.
'Hunter?' Huffman said. The conviviality of his tone became even stronger. 'Now how ironic is that?'
'Now who's talking cliches?' Next he'd be hitting me with the old chestnut about the hunter becoming the prey. I cut that line of conversation. 'You said you wanted something. I want Kate back. Let's deal.'
'Kate's a beautiful woman. I can see how you'd want her back. So yes, let's deal.'
'You want Imogen Ballard in exchange for Kate?'
'Exactly.'
'I don't know where she is.'
'Find her then. Hunt her down. Bring her to me and Kate's yours.'
'Where will I bring her?'
'That's good, Hunter. No whining about having to find her. No excuses. I like that. You sound like someone I can trust to get the job done.'
'Where will I bring her?' I asked again.
'That's yet to be determined.'
'You're not in Little Fork any more.'
'In a short while I won't even be in Kentucky. However, some of my associates will be. I've put a contract out on your head.'
'Thoughtful of you.'
'Let the presence of my men motivate you. If they kill you, well, it will be a slight hiccup in our arrangement. But, Hunter, that won't stop me. I have Kate. She'll bring her sister to me and I'll have the two of them to do with as I please. If you want Kate back, I'll stand by our agreement: the quicker you bring Imogen Ballard to me the better it is for the both of you.'
'Send your thugs all together, or one at a time. It won't make a difference. I'll send them all back in body bags.'
'Bravo, Hunter. That's the spirit. I know I can count on you.'
'See you soon,' I said.
'I look forward to meeting you.' He let the implication hang in the air. Then as an afterthought he added, 'Keep the phone, Hunter. It will come in handy when you've found Imogen.'
'I'll speak to you soon, but not on this phone.'
Dropping the phone to the floor, I ground it beneath my heel.
Throughout my conversation with Huffman the sickly-looking man had not moved. He watched me destroy the phone with a look of distraction.
'Roger Wallace, I presume?'
The man blinked up at me with his jaundiced eyes.
'Where's Huffman?'
'On his way to Dallas.' He wore a look of resignation, like he'd just realised that his partner had left him to face my wrath on his own.
'I guess that you're just another misguided individual who was forced to do Huffman's bidding?'
He shook his head. 'No. I knew what I was doing. I'm dying. I've a wife and children, I have grandchildren. I want to leave them comfortable after I'm gone. Huffman has given me that opportunity.'
'You're supposed to be a judge,' I said. 'You're supposed to protect the people you serve. Instead you stand by when they're murdered. Noble sentiment about providing for your family means nothing. Not when you're lying. It's greed, Wallace. That's all it is. Greed and murder.'
'You're going to kill me?'
'No. I'm not your executioner. You'll be tried by the people whom you've betrayed.' I rapped him round the side of his head and he fell unconscious at my feet. 'And I guess they'll be better judges than you've ever been.'
Chapter 20
Sending Larry Bolan's truck through the front of the restaurant had been a little pointless. I'd been expecting Huffman inside, bodyguards too, and the stunt with the truck had been intended as a distraction while I made my way inside by the other route. Huffman had arranged it so that all I had to do was walk inside and take the phone from Judge Wallace. I'd killed the man on the stairs for nothing. But I didn't let that concern me; I had more important things on my mind. Primarily, who were these associates of Huffman and why had he warned me they were coming?
My first thought was that I couldn't deliver Imogen Ballard to him if I was dead. But it was like he said: my death was inconsequential to his plans. He had Kate, and ultimately that was what would bring Imogen to him. My value was no higher than that of any other of the men he had at his beck and call.
It didn't take much figuring out.
Huffman simply couldn't help himself. He enjoyed pitting man against man. He enjoyed the thought of blood and violence. By promising to return Kate to me, he knew that I would fight tooth and nail. His own men would be coming with the same intention. He'd warned me about them because he wanted us to fight and he was not the least bit concerned by how many of us would die.
He had no intention of returning Kate to me. If I delivered Imogen Ballard to him, both women would die. Likely he'd make sure I died too. He wasn't going to leave any loose ends.
Smashing the phone was a mistake.
I should have demanded proof of life first.
Now I had to accept his word that Kate was alive and that he'd keep her as bait for her sister. Still, to do that, he had to make contact with Imogen. That gave me the luxury of some time, none of it to be wasted here fighting contract killers for Huffman's amusement.
When we'd first arrived in Kentucky, we had booked rooms at a hotel at the airport. I had left my spare clothes and supplies in my room. That would be my first port of call. With the supplies I had fake documents that I could use to book a flight out of there.
I left Judge Wallace unconscious on the floor.
Making my way down the stairs I searched my pocket for my mobile phone. Instead, I found Kate's.
A plan of sorts came to mind.
I rang Imogen's number, not expecting her to answer. She didn't, but I left a message on her voicemail. Imogen obviously knew enough not to use her phone – it could be too easily traced – but I suspected that she hadn't cut herself off with any finality. Maybe she would access her voice messages. With some networks you could do that remotely from any landline.
'Imogen,' I said. 'I'm Joe Hunter. I was a friend of Jake's, maybe he told you about me? Kate has been taken by the men you're hiding from. I'm going to get her back. But I need your help. Ring me.'
Then I could only hope that I was right.
My next call was to Rink.
'I'm getting out of here, Rink.'
'Uh-oh.'
I told him about my conversation with Rob
ert Huffman.
'He's put out a contract on you?'
'So he said. I have to assume he was telling the truth.'
'Unless he's only tryin' to frighten you,' he said, 'so that you deliver Imogen to him quicker.'
'That'd be a waste of time.'
'Nothin' frightens Joe Hunter, huh?'
'Plenty of things frighten me, Rink. Contract killers don't.'
'So where are you going?'
'If Huffman's heading for Dallas, so am I.'
'I'll change my flight plans,' Rink said. 'Join you there instead.'
We arranged to meet at Dallas Fort Worth Airport the following morning.
'You want me to pick up Harvey on the way?' Rink asked.
'We could do with the extra firepower.'
'Harvey will be pleased to hear that. I asked him to dig up what he could on Huffman for you. He's been itchin' to get in on the action ever since.'
We hung up, and I felt a little better knowing that my friends were on their way. Despite my macho words, the thought of having a bunch of contract killers hunting me was concerning. If I failed, Kate would die too, and that was something I was afraid off. I wanted to believe that I had a purpose in this world. My protective side had kicked in and if Kate was to die, that would make me question everything I stood for.
That isn't going to happen, I promised myself.
I was back at the bottom of the stairs, standing at the entrance to the kitchen. The only sound from the public area now was the tick of the Dodge Ram's cooling engine. Someone – most likely Sheriff Aitken – had turned it off.
For a brief moment I considered going into the restaurant. Two outstanding issues needing resolving in there. First off, I had to decide what to do with Aitken. I couldn't kill the man in cold blood, so I had to leave him as I had Judge Wallace. They would be dealt with by the law of the land. Second, I needed transportation out to the airport. The Dodge was available. But the truck was too visible a target.
With the SIG and Glock 17 pushed down the waistband of my jeans, I moved over to the door I'd come in by. The Magnum I placed on the stainless-steel counter in the kitchen. It was no good to me any more.
It was still snowing.
The deserted streets were tranquil beneath the fall of virgin snow. There was a hush, the blizzard blanketing and deadening all sound. The sidewalk looked pristine; not a footprint in sight. Pulling up my collar, I stepped outside and broke the image. My trail led away from le Coeur de la Ville.
As a rule I love snow.
But occasionally it can be as great an enemy as any other. I could only hope that it hadn't brought the airport to a standstill. Something like that could slow me down more than any number of killers.
Chapter 21
Before today Larry Bolan had never been knocked unconscious.
He'd battled all his life and some of those he'd gone up against had occasionally got their licks in. But he'd always brushed off their punches, laughed in their faces, and then smashed them into the ground.
To have it happen to him twice in the same day was bordering on ridiculous. The only good thing about both bouts of senselessness was that he'd actually come out of them alive.
After he wakened in the forest, Trent had been there with him. This time, his first thought was that Trent was gone. The loss of his little brother hit him afresh. But Larry wasn't the crying type; he was the type that raged against grief. The pint of whisky he'd downed didn't help his frame of mind either.
He came up from beneath the wreckage of the bar like an erupting volcano. When the Dodge had slammed into it, he was fortunate that he had been in a crouch. At the last second he'd managed to duck his head, avoiding decapitation, and the truck had knocked the bar over and on top of him. He'd slammed his head on something hard and gone out as if a light switch had been flicked. The bar top had formed a shield between the truck and his collapsed body. The walnut board had been his saviour, but now it was only an encumbrance. He lifted it on his shoulders as he came to his feet, and hurled it aside with a roar of anger.
Then he stood blinking at the carnage.
Le Coeur de la Ville wasn't such a fancy-assed restaurant any more.
The Dodge was further along the wall from him. After it slammed the bar, the vehicle had continued to push forwards, seeking escape, but it had been nudged and bounced and had ended up jammed in a corner of the building. Its hood was angled towards the ceiling, the front wheels balanced on a pile of smashed tables and chairs.
His eyes were a little unfocussed, but Larry saw movement in the cab.
He thought it might be the man who'd killed Trent, but that didn't make sense. What would be the point of ramming the truck into the restaurant and then sitting there doing nothing?
Shards of glass tinkled off him as he pushed through the drift of demolished furniture. There were small slivers in his hair, and he could feel a powdery residue on his face. He stank of spilled liquor. A couple of minor scratches on his hands stung like crazy. The wound in his shoulder was on fire. Otherwise he was unharmed.
But his truck was bashed all to hell.
Whoever the man who killed Trent was, Larry had already sworn to kill him. Now, seeing his beautiful Grand Taurino in a state, he swore that he would do more than kill him; he was going to wipe him and everything he held dear out of existence.
'Who's there?' a voice called from inside the cab.
'Aitken?'
'Larry? Is that you?'
Larry clambered up the pile of shattered tables, his heel skidding in a pool of oily liquid, and then grabbed at the driver's door handle to pull himself upright. Peering in the open window, he saw Sheriff Aitken with a bruise on his jaw and a tiny cut on his forehead. The windscreen was starred from where Aitken's head had slammed against it when the truck rammed through the front of the building.
'What the hell have you done to my truck?'
'I didn't do this, Larry.' Aitken tried to pull his hands away from the steering wheel so that Larry could see the cuffs. 'See?'
'You could have still steered the damn thing.'
'The guy had a goddamn gun to my head.' Aitken began rattling at the cuffs. 'Get me outa here, will ya?'
'He was with you all the way inside?'
'No,' Aitken said. 'He jumped off at the last second. He was going in the back way after Huffman. There was nothing I could do, Larry. Anyway, it's just a truck!'
'Just a truck?'
Larry didn't like Jim Aitken. He was a pussy stooge if ever he'd seen one. And he knew that Aitken didn't like him much either. Plus, Aitken absolutely hated Trent.
'You could've taken your foot off the gas.'
'The guy jammed it down with a goddamn wrench,' Aitken shouted. Then he started pulling at the cuffs in frustration. 'Are you gonna do something, Larry?'
'Yeah, hold still. I'm gonna do something.' Larry reached inside the cab with both his huge hands.
'About time…'
Larry clamped both hands round Aitken's head and twisted violently. The sound of vertebrae snapping was like the discharge of a small bore rifle.
'You should've kicked the goddamn wrench away,' Larry said to the dead sheriff.
Larry negotiated his way through the furniture wreckage so that he was again on steady footing. He wiped his boot heel on the carpet, wondering what the hell he'd stood in. Probably some kind of food dressing with a name he couldn't pronounce. It didn't matter. It was of no more concern to him than the man he'd just murdered.
He took a look at the front of the building. The entire glass front was gone, most of it spread through the interior of the building. The snow was falling fat and heavy. It was a whiteout. Some of the flakes were finding their way inside and drifting on currents of air. In this neck of the Appalachians snow wasn't unknown, but it was a long time since Larry had seen a blizzard of this strength. Further along the passes would stay blocked, for a couple of days at least. The only way out of Little Fork would be by foot or by flight. So he left
the Dodge where it was.
He pushed through into the kitchen area. It was in darkness, but there was ambient light nudging in through the service door at the back. That was where Trent's killer had come in. He swung immediately into the stairwell that led to Huffman's offices on the top floor. He listened but couldn't hear a thing.
He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious, but he had the feeling that the man had already gone. He climbed the stairs to the first landing. He saw Eric Conroy lying dead at the base of the next flight of stairs, a hole the size of a rosebud in his gut. Larry kicked him over and saw the rose had bloomed on his back. He checked but Conroy wasn't armed. That wasn't like Conroy, Larry thought. Huffman's fetch-and-carry boy was never without his Glock 17. Trent's murderer was amassing quite a gun collection.
He stepped over the dead man and mounted the final flight of stairs. Lights were on above him. He watched for shadows, but there was no movement so he entered the first office and saw the door open to the next room. He listened. He could hear breathing. Someone had taken a knock and was breathing raggedly. Larry was familiar with the sound: he'd knocked enough men unconscious that he recognised it.
Judge Wallace was lying on the floor. The man was sprawled out like a starfish, legs and arms splayed. His head was back and his mouth wide open. He had a bruise on his face and Larry guessed the guy he was after was getting a bit too fond of pistol-whipping folk.
Larry was no more concerned with the judge than he'd been with Jim Aitken. He stepped past him to open the next door, and saw that Huffman's office was deserted. The chair where Kate had been cuffed was empty.
Larry scowled at the open space.
Huffman had taken off with the woman.
If Huffman had still been here when the man arrived, one or the other would be dead on the floor. There was no sign of blood, no sign that a fight had even taken place.
He turned back to Wallace.
Crouching down beside the judge, Larry slapped the older man's face a couple of times. His face had an unhealthy pallor, but then again, it always did.
'Wallace! Wake up, Goddamnit!' He slapped the judge again, and this time the man stirred. His eyelids flickered repeatedly, eyes attempting to focus. A hand came up and pushed against Larry's chest. Larry grabbed the hand and swung the judge up and round and sat him in a chair.